


Collected Shorts, 2007 -2008

by Metz



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 07:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16488365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metz/pseuds/Metz
Summary: Each chapter is a short, standalone piece from my Doctor Who and/or Torchwood scribbling. Some originated from kinkmeme posts.The warning is because some of the pieces are pretty explicit, and ONLY YES involves dubious consent.I'll be posting longer, or more peculiar works separately.Each chapter heading contains the pairing, explicit or not, and any warnings.Please leave a comment if you like the story, it makes me happy :) Concrit also accepted, but these are 10 years old now.





	1. Prompts from Romeo and Juliet (9/Rose) (Jack/Ianto, Character death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two prompts from Romeo and Juliet
> 
> "Oh trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again!" (9th Doctor and Rose)  
> "Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!” (Jack/ Ianto, Character death)

**_"Oh trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again!"_**

 

He stands in the shadows. His heats beat so loud in his ears he was almost afraid it would wake her as she slept, caught in the shaft of light from the half open door.

 Such a fragile golden haired primate, offspring of a stupid ape, so delicate and so…

One hand is under her cheek, the other trails over the side of the bed. She’s wearing a shirt that’s ridden up to the level of her ribs, beneath that, he cannot see for the duvet.

Shouldn’t even be interested, anyway.

Her breathing quickens, and he is frozen suddenly by the soft, breathy moan escaping her sleeping lips. She turns onto her back, one hand coming to rest on her bare stomach.

He lets his mind and his eyes dwell there for just a moment. He wonders how she would react if he ran his finger in a line from her sternum to her hip.

Wonders if she’d wake if he brushed the hair from her eyes.

Wonders how she’d feel against his skin.

He almost takes a step forward.

He almost takes the same step every night.

Pathetic. Just pathetic.

He stalks away.

***

Every night she wants to say his name. Every night, she almost does.

  
____________

_**"Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!"** _

Drabble : 100 words

 

Jack doesn’t break at goodbye. He doesn’t break as the blue eyes, forever now unblinking, fix one last time on his face.

He doesn’t break as he looks up from the bloody mess in his arms and calmly asks to be left alone.

He doesn’t break as Ianto turns cold, or as he kisses blue lips, and seals them all away forever with the impersonal sound of a closing door.

He doesn’t even break when he shatters one hundred and twenty seven of his bones leaping from the water tower.

He takes his first new breath; _alone_.

Then he breaks.


	2. Never ever (10/Rose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief venture into what happens when something pretends? to be Rose.

I want you. 

I know you are not her.   
I know you can never be her.  
Never ever.

But you have her face, and her smile, and her words and if there was a god I swore to, I’d swear it,  
You have her body.

So I want you, and you know it, that’s why you chose this form.

It’s why for countless nights- I haven’t been counting in nights, only in seconds, in pico-seconds, in oscillations of electrons, you have come here, and tormented me. You have sat on the end of my bed, and looked so confused, and so lost. I have woken and there you have been, biting your lip in the way you do when you are trying to understand, to say what you mean. 

At first, you were a dream that came on the edge of sleep. When I reached for you you were gone, and I was awake in sweat soaked sheets, trembling and alone. Just a dream.

Then you were a ghost, that haunted my days. I caught you from the corner of my eye, smiling, asking questions but when I turned to answer you were never there. How could I work, how could I do a thing with your breath on my neck, but nothing else?

I should have done something about it then. Before it came to this. 

Two nights ago you cried because I turned away from you. You ran your hand over my shoulder (a hand so warm, so soft), and I tried to tell you that you were dead, but how can I when you are her? I tried to explain but you don’t understand ionic energy, and eddies, and echoes. But your tears are real, because you spilled them on my covers; I can see them still in the smudged mascara on the shirt you used to defiantly dry your eyes as you hated me and ran, disappearing into nothingness. 

Last night I lay awake waiting for the sound of your footsteps, pretending to be asleep. You did not come in a billion oscillations, And I thought you had gone, taking her from me forever. Her name broke across my lips, and you were there then, standing in the doorway, head on one side, hand in your pocket.  
“I thought maybe you didn’t want me around anymore,” you said.  
I shook my head. “Never. Never ever.”  
“Never say never ever,” you said back. “That’s what you said.”  
“I was wrong.”   
“You, wrong? That’ll be the day.” She laughs. “I’ll be back tomorrow, shall I?”  
“Don’t….” But you were gone, and my dreams were full of you.

Tonight, you wake me. “What if you are right,” you say. “What if I am dead? What if I’m a ghost, or something? Or an alien? Or a robot?”  
“You are none of those things,” I say, and my hand brushes your cheek to catch the tears. It’s like electricity racing along my nerves. “None of them, you hear me.”  
“But you said…” You look up at me.  
“There are uncountable things in the universe,” I say. Maybe I could count them, I have counted every pico-second since she died. “Well, a very big number anyway.”  
You smile, a half smile of determination. “Okay.”  
I draw you into my arms and you sigh so hard as I hold you against me. I can hear the beating of your heart so furious against my chest. You wonder why I am shaking.  
“Because of this,” I say, and I tip your chin so I can brush my lips against yours.

I want you. 

I know you are not her.   
I know you can never be her.  
Never ever.


	3. Introspection / Alternative scenes, Journey's end. 10/Donna, genfic, Character death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as introspection and an alt ending to the episode 'Journey's End', literally in the hour after I first saw it.  
> I was very unhappy with the fact he completely denied her any agency at the end, really.

**Doctor Introspective**

 

He knows she's drowning.

The flippant, desperate denial, the urgent business. The fear of the inevitable, buried so he doesn't have to feel... only think.

She knows. The thing that's killing her is the thing that's letting her know.

“Don't make me go back....”

He looks at her, and he hates his pity.

“Please... I don't want to go back.”

 She remembers who she was, and it breaks his hearts to see her realise where this is heading.

She's drowning in him  _(don't they all drown in him eventually?)_ scrabbling towards the surface like an unwanted, but faithful dog.

 She doesn't care he's broken her. She only sees who she's become and the universe- for a moment, glimpsed in it's full glory.

“Don't make me go back.”

 He can't see a choice. In a nanosecond he remembers how it feels to hold a slowly cooling body in his arms and he can't bear that pain again.

 _Damn it Donna, don't do this to me. I won't let you. I won't_!

Because he's left his ghosts behind on a parallel world, and he wants no more created today.   Because she's only human, she hasn't the will to resist him. Because he's a Time Lord and he has the _right_ to change time.  Because History **can** be rewritten.

Because she'd be better off having never met him, living her simple human life. And not being dead. Not being dead is good. Good for both of them.

He can see himself dying within and beside her. So he strips away her identity, rips himself out of her. Saves them both.

It's only later, when he's alone, when he's finished cradling her on the doorstep of her house, when he's left her with her mother, that he finally realises what he's done.

_History can be rewritten._

_Don't you dare... not one line._

**Alternative choice**

 

He knows she's drowning.

The flippant, desperate denial, the urgency. The fear of the inevitable, buried so he doesn't have to feel... only think.

 She knows. The thing that's killing her is the thing that's letting her know.

 “Don't make me go back....”

 He looks at her, and he hates his pity.

 “Please... I don't want to go back.”

 She remembers who she was, and it breaks his hearts to see her realise where this is heading.

 She's drowning in him  _(don't they all drown in him eventually?)_ scrabbling towards the surface like an unwanted, but faithful dog.  She doesn't care he's broken her. She only sees who she's become and the universe- for a moment, glimpsed in it's full glory.

 “Doctor, Please. Don't make me go back.”

 He can't see a choice. In a nanosecond he remembers how it feels to hold a slowly cooling body in his arms and he can't bear that pain again.

 _Damn it Donna, don't do this to me. I won't let you. I won't_! Because he's abandoned his ghosts behind on a parallel world, and he wants no more created today.   Because she's only human, she hasn't the will to resist him. Because he's a Time Lord and he has the right to change time.  Because History **can** be rewritten.

 Because she'd be better off having never met him, living her simple human life. And not being dead. Not being dead is good. Good for both of them.

 As he touches her face, she's begging him. Her mind, pleading with him. _Don't do this to me. Please. Don't do this to me._

_I'm sorry. I'm so..._

At he very last moment, he stops, his mind brushing the surface of hers, and listens. Actually listens to the woman who was nothing, and became everything.

  _He understands._

 She collapses in his arms and he kneels with her, holding her against his chest. She's babbling rubbish, half conversations, and muddled equations. Her heart stutters against the strain, and she's trying to find the words as the synapses misfire and degenerate. He leans forward and up, activating the TARDIS to carry them to the last co-ordinates she had set before wrapping her once again in his arms.

 “Donna,” he says, softly, as the TARDIS materialises. “We're here.”

 She is so still he fears it's all too late, and all for nothing. He's shaking as he presses her hand into the side of her neck, searching for the faint and erratic pulse, and holding his breath until he finds it.

 “Donna?”

 He snaps his fingers, just once, and the doors open for them. Half crawling, he moves them both to the ramp, and settles her head against his shoulder. “Look, Donna. Look at the mountains.”

 Her eyes are full of tears, and he gently brushes them from her face. She's beyond words now, and he wonders if she's beyond sight as well.  So he whispers softly; “Mountains that move as the wind catches them, beneath a sky the colour of grass. It will be summer soon, the birds are calling.”

 She reaches for his hand. He wraps his fingers round hers and holds on, listening to her ragged breathing slowing and slowing and finally... nothing.

 “You were ...” he says, his voice broken.  “You were brilliant.”

 For a long time after,  it is only his tears that break the silence.


	4. Solitudes (Jack/Ianto) Explicit.

Ianto breaks down in front of him. His calmness, his smile, just dissolve away as he crumples to the floor. Jack Harkness hesitates.then he goes down on his knees and drags him into his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?”.  
Ianto won’t look at him, just buries his face in Jack’s chest and clings to him . Jack runs his fingers over Ianto’s scalp, trying to soothe him, trying to stop this awful, awful emotion. “Don’t Ianto, please don’t cry, please don’t.” And Jack hurts because he wonders if he is the cause of this, if he has destroyed this man again, without even knowing why.  
“Don’t leave me,” Ianto says.  
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I’m right here.” Jack runs over in his mind, over what he could have said or done. Everyone else was gone, he’d called Ianto over and asked if he wanted a drink, told him not to look so worried, this wasn’t a ‘little talk’ or even a big talk, just a drink. And Ianto had smiled, and agreed, and they made foolish chat about weevils in woolly hats. And one drink became two, and three and more.  
“I’m sorry,” says Ianto. He wipes his face with his hand, and tries to hide his blotchy eyes from Jack. Jack ever so gently tips his chin so he is looking up at him.  
“For?”  
And then he remembers, Ianto taking the family picture out of his wallet, and the happy sunlit picture of Lisa that fell beside it. It sat there for a moment, both men looking at it. And Jack had said “I’m sorry.”  
“I think you’re the last person I should be crying at.”  
“I deserve it, Ianto. I deserve it because all that ever happens around me is people get hurt.”  
“I don’t think you quite understand me,” says Ianto.  
Hell, thinks Jack. Who understands any of it? “Why don’t you tell me?”  
“Show you,” Ianto says. And he moves his head , kissing Jack’s fingers  
Jack moves his hand so he is gently stroking Ianto’s cheek with his thumb. “Oh, Ianto. No. Not me.”  
“Hated you,” he said. “Wanted to see you die because I didn’t like how I felt. Didn’t want to look at you and want you, not then.”  
He’s seen it happen before. Seen hate turn to love and love to hate. Seen rage become desire, and just as quickly return. “You should go home,” he says. But he makes no move to release Ianto, nor does Ianto want to move. Jack knows if he is to stop it, he will have to really want to. The fact he doesn’t worries him.  
“Its okay,” Ianto says. “I know you don’t feel the same. But do me a favour, please. Stop flirting with me. I can’t bear it.”  
He wants to say…I keep thinking about kissing you, but he knows he shouldn’t. Instead he says. “That’s fair.”  
Ianto nods. “I’ll move in a minute.”  
“Take your time.”  
“Sorry.”  
He can’t help but stroke Ianto’s hair again “You’re creasing your suit.”  
“I apologise for my shocking lack of attention to dress standards,” Ianto says, and manages a chuckle. Jack can feel his laugh, right against his heart. He smiles, resting his chin on the top of Ianto’s head, and holding him close.  
“That’s not helping,” says Ianto, who moves in just such a way that Jack is left without a shadow of a doubt as to the effect he is having.  
“No?” Jack says. “No. I see. Should I give you an order to leave, then?”  
“I think that might be for the best, Sir.”  
“Ianto Jones,” Jack says. “Get up and go home this instant.”  
For a moment it looks that Ianto will comply, but he seems to think better of it.  
“Ianto, that’s not a polite request.” Goddamnit Ianto, will you please go before I can’t help but take you right here and right now.  
The Welshman lets go of Jack, and sits back, stretching out his legs. “Rightio,” he says, as he gets to his feet. “I’ll be off now then.”  
Jack stands up too, sitting on the end of the table, wrapping his fingers round an empty glass. “See you tomorrow,” he says, as without ceremony, Ianto leaves the room. He turns and pours himself another glass, then stands in the doorway, looking at the spot Ianto just left.

He smiles sadly, shakes his head and turns out the lights.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack Harkness waits, distantly aware that the glass will slip through his scotch numbed fingers. He knows it will shatter, spreading shards on the floor like so much wasted life. Like John, out of time and unable to overcome the emptiness. Like Owen, so bitter he wanted to throw his life away in a cage of weevil. Like Suzie, driven mad by this place, as, he supposed, they all would be. But John’s death, because he sat there and held his hand as he died, haunted him somehow more than the others. Holding death, trying to know it, but only serving to make life more hollow. Tears cloud his eyes as the glass falls, but it never reaches the ground. The hand that catches it places it on the table, then gently rests on his forearm.  
Jack blinks, and Ianto is kneeling in front of him, his expression unpenetrable. “I’ll get some coffee,” he says.  
As Ianto gets to his feet Jack grabs his sleeve. “I don’t need coffee.”  
“Is there anything you need that I can get for you?”  
Jack looks up. Only you… “No.”  
Ianto looks at him. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”  
“No.”  
Ianto picks up the bottle. “I’ll lock this away, though,” he says.  
As Ianto turns to leave, something inside Jack forces him to speak, words forming and being spoken before he can stop them. “Have you ever been so lonely that it feels theres a sheet of glass between you and everything you see.”  
“Yes,” says Ianto. He won’t meet Jack’s eyes. “It feels like it’s been that way my whole life.”  
Jack slowly shakes his head. “Longer,”he says. “Longer when everything I touch turns to dust, when everything living in my life is dead. Most of them by my hand.”  
Jack fights the warmth that floods his fingers as Ianto rests his hand over his and smiles “I may be pale, but I’m not dead yet.”  
“No thanks to me.”  
“Actually sir,” Ianto says. “I’m pretty sure I would be dead by now if it wasn’t for you. Dead or worse.”  
He moves to sit beside Jack, who suddenly realises how warm the young man is. A slight hint of colour rises in Ianto’s cheeks. Jack remembers holding Ianto, holding as the façade cracked and the young man’s pain came flooding out through the gaps. He remembers the soft brush of Ianto’s lips on his fingers and fighting so hard not to invite those lips to his. He remembers a flirtatious promise made over Suzies’ body that never came to anything, what with Myfanwy’s sudden illness and the retconning of the reptile expert from Cardiff zoo. Before that he remembers finding Ianto on the verge of death, kissing him as if sheer will would bring him back, finding that somehow it had worked. All that life in my kiss and yet I feel none of it.  
Ianto rubs Jack’s shoulder . “I’ll be around all night. I’ve been having car trouble and I don’t really want to walk home. And getting a cab down here at this time is a little unlikely.”  
And Jack knows that the truth is Ianto hasn’t used his car since Jack let John kill himself in it, and wonders that really they should get him a new one, because frankly its probably a bit much to ask, even of Ianto. “If there is anything you need,” Ianto says, “Shout.”  
And Jack wants to scream, yes Ianto, yes.I want to hold you because you are alive, and I want to fuck you so hard we both forget who we are, but he says “Thank you.”  
Ianto gets up, and as he walks away, he turns, looking over his shoulder. “Anything,” he says, softly and then carries on. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Jack finds Ianto boxing files, and watches him for a moment. Then he moves up to him, resting his arm across his back as he peers into the boxes. “Anthing interesting?”  
“Receipts, mostly,” Ianto says.  
“Ah,” says Jack, and then he reaches up to slide Ianto’s suit jacket over his shoulders.  
“Sir?” says Ianto, quietly, questioning. Jack likes to fancy it has a bit of hope in it too.  
Jack slides his arms round Ianto and rests his cheek against the welshman’s shoulder. Ianto is warm, muscle moving beneath skin, beneath fabric. “Tell me to go,” Jack says. “Before I use you.”  
“What do you want, Jack?” Ianto says.  
“I need to touch life,” Jack says. “But I can’t give anything in return…”  
“I’m a big boy now, sir,” Ianto says. “I won’t tell you to go.”  
“Jack softly kisses the back of Ianto’s neck,unfastening the shirt that is keeping his fingers from touching skin. “Turn round,” he says.  
Ianto turns, and Jack presses him back against the desk, one hand on his back, and one on his chest. Honest but awkward, Ianto slides his arm round Jack’s waist as Jack draws Ianto to his mouth, brushing his lips softly against Ianto’s mouth. The kiss deepens as Ianto’s tongue dances against his. Jack unfastens the tie, and for a moment he steps back to look at the gorgeous sight before him. Ianto’s tie is hanging undone, framing the open shirt and the smooth skin of his chest.  
“Sir?”  
“You may look good in a suit, but you look better half out of it,” Jack says. “And stop calling me sir. It’s a bit…”  
“Kinky sir?”  
“I was going to say formal,” says Jack. He’s not losing this to witty retorts, he needs this too much.  
Ianto smiles, and Jack falls on him like a man possessed, kissing hard, biting at the younger man’s neck, pulling his firm warm body against him. “Touch me, Ianto,” he says, breathing hard. “Touch me.”  
Ianto’s hands are on him, getting him naked, fingers on his skin, melting through the frozen pain. Jack unfastens Ianto’s trousers as Ianto goes for Jack’s belt. Jack slides his hand into the warmth between Ianto’s thighs, and they lean into each other, fumbling. All Jack can think about is how incredible it feels as Ianto wraps his fingers round Jack’s cock. Ianto’s other hand is at the back of his neck, holding him into the kiss, his moan hot in Jack’s mouth as Jack grips Ianto’s cock and runs his thumb over the head of it. Jack wants to bury himself in him, give into the heat of Ianto, wrap himself in life.  
“I want to be inside you,” Jack growls at Ianto’s ear.  
“Anything,” Ianto’s reply is breathless. “Oh God, anything.”  
Jack takes Ianto’s hand, and starts to pull him towards his office, getting three paces before he can’t bear not to have his mouth on his. He presses Ianto against the wall and explores Ianto’s mouth again, his hand on his chest and his fingers rolling over Ianto’s nipple. Another three paces, and this time it’s Ianto who presses Jack against the handrail, his fingers seeking out Jack’s cock again. “Office,” Jack manages to say. “Stuff.”  
“Minute,” Ianto replies, his tongue tracing patterns on Jack’s throat.  
Jack drags Ianto as far as the doorframe, where Ianto drops to his knees and looks up at him. Jack isn’t sure where the devil in those eyes comes from, or if its always been there and he’s just been too wrapped up in something else to notice.  
“Shit,” Jack says, as Ianto’s mouth finds its way to his balls, and from there his tongue makes one smooth pass along his cock. Jack cups the back of Ianto’s head, and slumps backwards, moaning. He didn’t expect this…  
Ianto’s tongue travels up,up Jack’s abdomen, his chest, pausing to circle his nipples, before hitting his mouth. And then Ianto stops, and looks at him. There’s something wonderful in those eyes now, and Jack doesn’t want to examine it too closely. He points vaguely at his desk, leading Ianto there with both hands now, as much to stop Ianto breaking him too early. Too soon. I want to be inside you, he thinks. Have to be inside you when I come.  
He backs Ianto up against the desk, finding the lube in the second drawer down. Ianto is shaking as Jack slides his fingers between Ianto’s thighs and finds the hot, tight space waiting for him. As Jack slips a finger inside him, Ianto moans, dropping backwards onto the desk. Jack pulls himself on top of him, balancing on the edge with Ianto’s thighs across his knees. He can see Ianto spread out in front of him, and he wants what he sees. He works Ianto more, until Ianto pulls him down, and whispers “why me?”  
“I need it,” Jack says. “I need you Ianto.”  
And Ianto whispers something that could have been ‘good enough’, but Jack isn’t sure. Ianto moves, slightly, and Jack knows what that movement means. He edges his cock inside Ianto, pressing past the resistance and Ianto grips at his arms as he does so, the pain of the young man’s fingernails counterpointing the wonderful heat that’s consuming him. Ianto twists beneath him, making a noise that screams passion to Jack. “God you’re so hot,”Jack growls. “So fucking hot.”  
He feels Ianto’s skin against his, drenched with sweat, blinks that same sweat from his eyes and his hair. He places his hand on Ianto’s chest and feels the heart beating there, racing as Ianto closes his eyes, his head turned to the side. Ianto clutches at Jack’s thighs, Jack laces his fingers with Ianto’s, feeling the grip tighten as he buries himself in the man,-into the life- beneath him again and again.This feels so good. You feel so good. Ianto mutters breathless expletives, only some in English, arching his back and trembling. Jack feels his thighs start to ache, an ache that’s spreading up through his hips and turning into something else completely. Jack lets go, feels the sweat, the pressure, the slick, hot, tight sensation. Yes, oh God. So close now. He looks up when he hears Ianto cry out - somewhere in the heat between them Ianto comes and Jack hears his name. God you are beautiful when you come, Ianto. And with me inside you. Oh, god.. Heat, and heartbeats, and tightness and Jack thrusts one last time, coming deep and hard. Head spinning he collapses forward, catching himself on his arms and turning Ianto to face him, kissing him as the last moment of his orgasm fades.  
It’s only when Ianto brushes the side of Jack’s face with his fingers, and looks at him with something like concern in his eyes, that Jack realises there are tears there, mixed in with the sweat. Ianto wipes them away, and wraps his arms round Jack.  
“Can’t stay here all night,” Ianto says, as Jack is struggling to get his breath back.  
“You can’t?” Jack hopes there isn’t too much disappointment in his voice.  
“No. Your art deco letter rack is poking me in the right kidney.”  
“Oh,” says Jack. He feels the laugh creep up on him, and Ianto is laughing with him, jostling to avoid the letter rack, holding him...

For one split second before the world comes back, Jack Harkness feels alive.


	5. A Coward with A Kiss (10/Jack, character death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some pretty dark 10 stuff, back in the day. In this piece Jack is an aberration in Time, one the Doctor has to eradicate. Written from the Doctor's POV  
> ***

He’s waiting for me.

“Figured you’d come eventually Doc,” he says.

“I had no choice, Jack.”

He smiles, but there is no life in it. Time was, this hollow smile would have torn me up inside.

 I was a different man, then.

 So was he.

 “So, do I get a last request?” he asks.

“The last wish of a condemned man?”

“Something like that.”

I don’t know how he can be so calm. _How I can be so calm._

“I can’t see why not.”

“I don’t suppose asking you not to do it would work?”

“No. I’m sorry Jack.”

“Are you?”

He walks up to me, and leans in to whisper in my ear. I recoil from his words.  From the very IDEA.

“No,” I say.  “Not that Jack. No.”

He looks wounded.  “Coward.”

“That’s not fair,” I say.

And almost immediately something rankles inside me. _Can the executioner really talk about fair to the man who followed him to the end of the universe, only to find *this* waiting for him._

“I’ve said my goodbyes,” he says. “Best get it over.”

 “Right. Yes.” And I realise there’s something I have to know. Even Jack Harkness can’t be that… incorrigible. “Why, in the whole universe, would you ask me for that?”

“Would you believe I want to?”

“It won’t change my mind.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

“Then why?”

He chuckles. He actually laughs. His eyes look into mine and he rests his hand on my shoulder. “I guess if you really don’t understand then there’s no hope for either of us.” He lets his hand fall to his side. “So, any time you like,” he says.  “Although I’d prefer it quick if you don’t mind. I’m getting cold.”

A fleeting doubt tries to surface but it never quite makes it. This isn’t how I imagined it would be.   I don’t know what I thought it would be, but it wasn’t this.

“Close your eyes, Jack,” I say. My voice sounds softer than it should.

“No,” he says, looking back at me, his blue eyes filled with an acceptance that I do not deserve.

I reach out and touch the side of his head, the movement becoming a caress without me intending it. It’s painful to touch him, but when he pulls me loosely against him I don’t stop. He’s still beautiful, and his presence reminds me of another kiss so long ago I’ve almost forgotten.

So I can’t stop myself, won’t stop myself as his lips brush against mine. His hands push the jacket over my shoulders and he kisses me like it’s his last.

Which I suppose, it almost is.

I respond. Respond by sending my tongue searching against his, and my fingers into his hair, holding him against my mouth. Respond by pressing my body against him, and breathing hard as his hands find my spine, _Damn you Jack. Damn you_.  He feels impossibly good and impossibly wrong, my hand finds its way between his thighs and he rewards me by dragging me down onto the floor.  His skin is so pale in the darkness that the thousand things I would never let myself want drive me to strip and kiss and touch him, if only for a moment. His arms wrap round me, fixing his eyes on mine, closing them only briefly as I find my way inside him with my fingers. There’s a hitch in his breathing as I touch him. It’s a sound I wish I’d heard him make under different circumstances. I press, just a little harder.

“Doesn’t matter if it hurts,” he says, and he drags my hand away so he can link his fingers with mine. “Not now.”

I press myself into his heat, and he encloses me. My teeth graze his neck, his fingers dig into my shoulders. I let him scratch at them until they bleed, my head buried in his shoulder thinking of nothing but being inside him, how hot and perfect and alive he is. I’m aware only of the heat that’s pooled in me, and his hand on my spine until he whispers my name.

I lift my head from his shoulder and look into his eyes. I want to close them, I want to close them more than I ever have but I can’t. Jack is crying. I put out my hand, to brush away the tears, and he catches my wrist, follows the line of my arm up to my cheek.  “Do what you have to,” he says.

His last words as he comes, his last words as I take his life…

_I love you._

And then it’s over. Time restored, anomaly removed, job done.

I cradle his body in my arms and weep.


	6. It Never Is (10/SimmMaster) - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tenth Doctor / Master (Simm) Fic. In my head, these two were just so wonderfully hot together - 10 and 'the anti-10'.

The Doctor kneels next to his bed, head resting on one hand, the other clenched into a fist at his side. The images in his mind beg to be made real, and he hates every one of them. Fucking the Master, coming inside him; old friends naked together, twirling gentle patterns on each others' skin; the Master fucking him, abusing him.   
He flicks so quickly from one to the other, craving affection, craving pain, just craving.  
For a moment, his hand falls into his lap, presses between his legs before he curls up his fingers once more and slams his hand against the bed frame until his fingers bleed. Can't risk losing control, giving in to these macabre fantasies and his twisted need of a dead man.

He can't touch himself because he knows it wont be enough – it never is.

But the pain in his hand isn't enough to stop him, either. He reaches down, letting out a sigh as his fingers ferret out flesh through his trousers, letting the juddering breath back in as he wraps his hand round his cock and pretends the fingers are not his own.  
“Ouch,” whispers the Master, from the doorway. “You really are a mess.”  
The Doctor turns, part horror and part desperation, pulling his hand away from himself. The Master stands there, leaning up against the door frame, his arms folded, looking down at the Doctor.  
“You can't be...” The Doctor says. “You're dead.”  
“Bah,” says the Master. “Dead is such a loose concept.”  
“You burned...”  
“You seem to like burning things,” says the Master. “Dead enemies, home planets.”   
“Stop it.”  
“You brought me here, what did you expect? That you could stop torturing yourself for more than five minutes?”  
“I... brought you here?”  
“With your incessant pain! I could hear your agony over the drums from a universe away.” The Master holds up his hands. “Believe it or not, I was concerned.”  
“Concerned?”  
“That you'd do something stupid.”  
“Hah,” the Doctor says. “Now I know I'm hallucinating, and obviously creatively.”  
The Master scowls. “Concerned I'd miss watching you pine yourself to death. What a treat. If I'd only known my dying would have such an effect on you I'd have done it long ago. Wait... I did. Several times. Did you always spend weeks afterwards coming into your hand?”  
The Doctor closes his eyes. “Just... just stop it.”  
“You weren't so alone then though, were you? Back then, you could still hear them, the singing of Gallifrey in your blood.”  
The Master puts his hand on the Doctor's shoulder, and crouches down next to him. “But you're not alone now,” he whispers. “Not any more.”  
The Doctor didn't even realise he was holding back the sob until it tears out of his burning throat. “Shhh,” says the Master, drawing the Doctor into his arms -solid, for a dream- and the Doctor clings to him. “I've got you.”  
The Master half lifts the Doctor onto the bed, and lies them both down. The Doctor gives in to the embrace, head nestled against the Master's shoulder. “There,” the master says. “Lets get rid of some of these clothes.”  
The Doctor recoils on instinct, but he doesn't resist as the Master lays him bare. The Master's eyes are dark as he runs his fingers over his ribs. “You really have let yourself go, haven't you.”  
The Doctor looks down at himself, and then at the Master's mostly clothed body. He takes hold of the Master's hand and gently kisses his fingers.   
The Master smiles almost tenderly. “So that's want you want is it, Doctor? Two great minds – not philosophy or history...”  
He trails his finger slowly down the Doctor's sternum, down in a line to his navel. Circles there.  
“Not old enemies, arguing into the night. No. You...”  
The finger teases lower, until the Master is -almost- touching the Doctor's cock, and the Doctor twitches.  
“Want....”   
He pauses there, leans in close to the Doctor's ear, his breath warm, his voice a dark rumble.  
“Flesh.”  
A tiny, desperate whimper escapes the Doctor's throat. The Master rests the palm of his hand on the Doctor's stomach, fingers splayed wide.   
“Then, dear Doctor, that is what you shall get.”  
The Master slides his hand upwards, reaching the Doctor's throat. The Doctor swallows against the Master's fingers.  
“I'm not gentle,” the Master says.  
“I don't want you to be gentle,” the Doctor whispers.  
The Master kisses hard at the Doctor's neck, and increases the pressure of his fingers until the Doctor is struggling for air.  
“Mark me...” the Doctor breathes.  
“Maybe.” The Master lifts his mouth from the Doctor's skin, and moves his hand – this time it travels down again in a long, appraising sweep of the Doctor's body, before nudging apart his thighs. The Doctor was hard before, now he's painfully aware, the Master's fingers cup and squeeze his balls.   
The Doctor reaches up, slides his hand inside the Master's shirt, pressing against the still solid chest. The Master sighs and unfastens the shirt, letting it fall over his shoulders. The Doctor then brushes his fingertips against the Master's face. So real.  
Oh!  
The Master twists one of the Doctor's nipples, smiling at the Doctor's expression of pain. The Doctor arches his body, and the Master does the same to the other nipple. Then he strikes the Doctor, snapping his head to one side and exposing the skin. He leans up, bites hard at the Doctor's throat, until the Doctor thinks he's going to either scream or come, or maybe both. He reaches up, but the Master pushes his hands back down, pins the Doctor's arms by straddling his chest, and undoes his trousers. He presses his cock against the Doctor's lips.  
“Suck,” he says.  
The Doctor does, choking as the Master pushes himself in, but somehow looking up as the Master smiles down at him and strokes his hair almost fondly. Then the touch becomes rough, forcing the Doctor's head still with clawed fingers as he thrusts deeper and faster.   
Then the invading organ is gone from his mouth, and the weight is gone from his chest. He breathes deeply, oxygenating, aching..  
“Turn over.”  
The Doctor rolls, pulling his knees up beneath him as the Master's hand slides down over his arse. It's coated with something, he doesn't know exactly what but it's wet and slick and cool against his skin. He presses back, onto the touch.  
“I'm going to fuck you...” the Master says, teasing with his fingers, scraping his nails along the inside of the Doctor's thigh.   
“Until the only word you'll remember is my name...”  
The Doctor whimpers slightly, half from the touch and half from the voice. Please, his mind says.  
“Until you beg me to stop...”  
The Master's fingers press against his hole, working their way inside him, roughly.  
“Please...” The Doctor whispers.  
The Master rakes the Doctor's back with his free hand, and thrusts his cock at that very moment- digging his fingers into the Doctor's hips to keep him still. Pain sears through the Doctor and he howls into the pillows, knowing he asked for this but wishing he hadn't, wanting it to stop. In a moment of panic he cries out...  
“Please... Master.... Stop...”  
But the Master has him fast, fingertips pressing painfully against bone as he drives into him. It burns, the Master's cock forcing him open, but it's contact, it's something...and for all the Master says he isn't gentle the Doctor knows it's a lie. Even as the Master yanks back the Doctor's head to nip again at his throat, even as he goes too just a little too deep and just a little too fast and laughs as the Doctor cries out at the hateful, perfect pain, even then he knows he's holding back. He's afraid of what that might mean. Afraid of the pain that might still come... aching inside and feeling the tears running from his eyes.   
The Master doesn't stop.  
And then the pain isn't pain any more, and even if it is the Doctor doesn't care. His body is welcoming every thrust, and he's moving with the Master, rocking his hips to find the perfect angle, and the Master's hand curls round his hip and wraps round his cock, spinning pleasure through his belly. The Master's breathing quickens, panting now, his breath hot against the Doctor's shoulder, and the Doctor burns with sweat and ecstasy and sex, whispering the Master's name through the sounds of skin on skin. He's going to come, and he does, shaking and hoping hoping the Master won't be far behind because he can't take it much longer...  
He isn't, his body tensing behind the Doctor's for a second, and clenching his hand into a fist on the Doctor's thigh – twice more, and he pushes the Doctor forward and off him, before sprawling on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The Doctor lies beside him, staring upwards too.  
“Thank you,” says the Doctor, after a long while.  
“Shut up and go to sleep,” says the Master.  
“Will you be here, when I wake up?”  
“What do you think?”  
The Doctor turns his back on the Master, curls into a ball, and sleeps.

He dreams of gunshots and the smell of fire. He dreams he's holding the Master in his arms. He dreams the Master kisses him, while around them the world burns.  
It's not enough. It never is.


	7. Only Yes (10/SimmMaster) (CW: Explicit and dub con. Mind games.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of mind games going on here. Be warned.   
> No really.

“It’s okay,” the Doctor whispers, softly. “I’m here.”   
“Aren’t you bored yet?” The Master says, looking up long enough to see them both in the mirror, he with his arms chained out like some kind of animal, chains with just enough give that he could fall to his knees. The suggestion isn’t lost on him but so far it hasn’t come to that. The Doctor’s naked body is pressing up against the Master’s back, as the Doctor slides long fingers around the Master’s cock. “Or does it turn you on knowing I can’t stop you?”  
“You can stop me,” the Doctor breathes. “Just tell me to stop.”  
The Master tips his head to one side for a moment, and then scowls. “No. You decide what’s wrong with this scenario; I’m not making it easy for you”.  
The Doctor’s firm hand strokes falter a little, and the Master is satisfied that even from here he can torture the Doctor just a little. Or maybe, he thinks…. Maybe just a little more.  
“If you don’t want it, Master, tell me to stop. Just tell me no.”  
The Master meets the Doctor’s reflected gaze. “I don’t want it, but I’m not telling you to stop.”  
“I won’t hurt you,” the Doctor says, his hand once again stroking, and the Master cursing the sheer inappropriateness of his physical response. “I just don’t want you to be alone.”  
“I know what you want,” the Master says, deliberately lowering his voice. “You want to fuck me.”  
“Shhhhh.” The Master can feel the soft brush of his captor’s lips on his throat, the press of the Doctor’s hips against his own. “This isn’t about me.”  
“How about when you’re on your own at night, fucking your fist with my name on your lips?”  
“No.”   
“Imagine that, Doctor. Finally burying yourself inside me and having me submit to you. How good would that feel?”  
The gentleness of the Doctor’s kiss remains, but the intensity rises. “Tell me you want this, or tell me to stop,” the Doctor says. 

The Master smiles and says nothing as the Doctor continues to stroke him. In the mirror, the Master sees the Doctor’s expression change, and watches as the Doctor wraps his free hand round his own cock and rests his head, for a moment on the Master’s shoulder. Strands of the Doctor’s hair tickle his skin, and without the chains the Master wonders if he would run his fingers through it or use it to put the Doctor on his knees.

“Doctor,” the Master says eventually, when the stroking is almost getting too much. “Tell me you don’t want to take this human - shaped body and fuck it a hundred human-shaped ways.”  
“ I don’t.” Somehow the Doctor’s hand is slick with something and sweeping up behind the Master’s balls and lingering there, caressing. The Master fights what could almost be pleasure, but pleasure won’t suit his new purpose.  
“It goes further than that, doesn’t it?” The Master lets his voice soften. “You want to hold me, make love to me. You want to wrap your arms round me and lose yourself.”  
“Nnnnngh …” The Doctor is pressed up close behind him now, skin burning against his. “Yes.”   
“Do you want to remember something good…? Something warm…? Do you want to remember us as lovers, Doctor?”  
The Master moans in his throat as he feels the Doctor’s cock push slowly into him. “Is it good?” the Master says, forcing the words out against his urge to scream. “Do I feel good, Doctor?”   
“Yes,” the Doctor whispers. “Oh Master, yes.”  
“Good,” the Master says, quietly, as the Doctor thrusts and gives just a little more of himself. “I want you to like it. I want you to remember, seeing us like this. Look up.”  
The Master waits until the Doctor, trembling and half lost in his pleasure, can see the Master’s eyes in the mirror. The Master smiles; when the Doctor returns the smile and the Master knows he has his attention, he lets the smile slowly fall away. “Only… I. Didn’t. Say. Yes.”

The Doctor freezes, his eyes wide, staring into the mirror. Which is when the Master laughs. 

“So, Doctor, what exactly does that make you?”


	8. Rough sex (Kink meme prompt, 10/Donna) Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP, as they used to say.   
> Originally written as a response to a prompt on an anon kink meme.

**Doctor/Donna – rough sex**

She’s baiting him.

Of all the stupid, madcap ideas she’s ever had, trying to enrage a volatile Timelord has to take a prize. But she can’t stop herself.

He backs her up against the TARDIS console, barely touching her. His expression is enough to move her, his eyes almost black. “Shut up!”

“Make me,” she says, meeting his gaze.  In truth, he’s scaring her stupid – she isn’t sure when that became the same as turning her on but somewhere along the line it has.

He leans in closer, his hand sliding up from her arm and resting for just one second at her throat. She catches her breath.  “You really, really don’t want me to do that,” he says.

Her eyes meet his as he pins her to the wall, one hand on either side of his head.

“Do it,” she says. “Go on, do it. ”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crushing her mouth beneath his. There is no gentility in it and she feels a surge of heat between her thighs.  She looks at him with fire in her eyes. Angry fire, but she doesn’t move. Her breathing is matching his, breath for ever-so-slightly ragged breath.

“I warned you,” he says. He moves his hand, gesturing. “Now go.”

 “That’s all you’ve got?”  The words are out of her mouth before she can think. “You want it, don’t you, but you think you’re so far above it you can do without. You play at passion but really, you’re just a streak of alien nothing…”

His hand catches her cheek, snapping her head to one side. He leans in, breathing into her ear. “You really want to see passion, Donna?” His teeth graze her neck. “You want to see what happens when I let go? Last chance.”

“Lets have it,” she says, hoping it sounded strong when she’s convinced it came out as a desperate squeak.

He spins her violently, up against one of the supporting struts. The shock almost knocks the breath out of her, but she’s enough strength to look up at him and smile. He grabs her wrists, forcing them up above her head, while he kicks her legs apart with his foot and thrusts his knee between her thighs.

His free hand rakes up the inside of her thigh and she moans. Without preparation, he thrusts two fingers round the edge of her knickers and up inside her sex.  She arches her back, pushing onto him as his mouth finds her throat and bites. His head moves lower, biting down to her breasts, forcing him to pull his fingers from inside her and to instead tear at her dress until it’s in pieces and she’s half naked before him. His hand grips her breast, pinching the nipple until she can’t help but whimper.

He laughs softly in her ear. “Still playing?”

“Not a game,” she says, breathless.

“Good,” he says. “I’m not playing, either.” He reaches down, unfastening himself, and then grinds his hips against hers, so she can feel the heat and hardness of him. His foot hooks behind her legs and she feels herself falling, landing hard against the grating as he follows her down. His fingers snarl in her hair, and he pushes her onto her knees.  His fingers force their way inside her again, and then he drives his cock in, right to the very centre of her, hauling back on her hair as he does so. She howls, because her muscles reject his sudden depth, but he doesn’t stop. His nails scratch down her back, over and over, in time to his thrusts.

She cries out, because it hurts like hell, the metal digging into her knees every time he enters her, and every time those long fingers tear more skin from her back. She begs him to do it harder, and he does. So she cries out because he’s growling and laughing as he fucks her, she can barely breathe and the heat is burning inside her and she’s going to come hard and on the edge of pain.

She comes, shouting  ‘Doctor’ and interspersing it with ‘you bastard’.  For a moment he pauses, turning her onto her back and looking down at her body. He grins.

“Are you done?” he says.

“Fuck, yeah,” she says, still shaking. “That was…”

“I’m not,” he says….

She buries the fear. “Bring it on.”


	9. Greek love (10/Quintus) (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another kink meme response, featuring the son of the family in Fires of Pompeii.

"Um, Doctor" Quintus says. "I don't need money."  
"Don't need money? What sort of young Roman are you? You could buy a lot of experiences with that."  
"I could, but I was wondering... you've obviously travelled, being Celtic, and everything...."  
"Well, I don't want to boast but I've been around quite a bit, yeah."  
"Have you met... the Greeks?"  
"The Greeks? Of course I've met the ..." The Doctor recognises the expression in Quintus' eyes. "oh. I see."  
"I'll take you to Lucius' house... if you'll, um, take me like a Greek."  
"Look, Quintus, You're a lovely young man and all that but, there must be SOMEWHERE else you could find that kind of 'experience'."  
"Probably," Quintus says. "But the local trade are all a bit- dirty. I wouldn't want to risk it. And if my Dad ever found out I'd be in so much trouble."  
The Doctor pauses to think. On the one hand he's not at all sure he should be even thinking of this, and on the other he really DOES need to find Lucius' house and the chances are Quintus isn't going to find any Greeks before the entire city is wiped out.  
"All right," the Doctor says. "But I'm not sure we should do this in the house."

Quintus knew the streets and alleys of Pompeii well enough. Well enough to find a dark, quiet place surrounded in linen and drapes away from prying eyes. The Doctor presses the young man against the wall, and nuzzles the back of his neck. "If this is going to work you are going to have to trust me... Well, as much as you can trust someone this popular in soothsaying circles."  
"It's Okay," Quintus says. "I'm not completely innocent you know."  
The Doctor reaches round and wraps his hand round Quintus' swelling cock, lightly running his fingers over the tip. With his other hand he reaches beneath Quintus' tunic and gently strokes the curves of the Roman's buttocks. They are soft, young but not too lean. Quintus sighs as the Doctor pulls back . "Don't stop."  
"I'm not stopping," the Doctor says, rummaging in his pockets for something to use as lube, returning his hand once he has. With one hand still wrapped round Quintus' cock, the Doctor slowly massages the anus of the man in front of him. "Okay so far?"  
Quintus mumbles something, so the Doctor speeds up and deepens his touch, finally slipping his finger inside.  
"Not so difficult as I thought," the Doctor says. "You've been experimenting, Quintus." He allows a second to join the first, finding the soft whimpering noises thankfully arousing. He works him a long time, smoothly sliding his fingers in and around and out, gentle but perhaps a little faster than he'd have liked. Time is, after all, against him. Quintus is shaking so hard the Doctor wonders if he'll last the act.  
"Please," says Quintus. "Please, I'm ready now."  
"Sure?" the Doctor whispers, and slips his cock free of it's anachronistic confines. He presses up against Quintus's still so tight hole, and pours a great deal more lube onto himself.  
"Yes," says Quintus, and pushes back a little.  
"Don't tense up," the Doctor whispers, feeling Quintus' erection softening. "Don't panic. Do trust me." He rocks forward, feeling Quintus tense on instinct with barely a centimetre inside him. The Doctor strokes his back. "Breathe," he says, and when Quintus relaxes, pushes further in.  
"Great Mars that hurts," Quintus says, through gritted teeth.  
"You want me to stop?"  
"No."  
As the hot body reaches out to welcome him, the Doctor moans himself, letting himself fell just a little. Quintus' body is warm and alive....  
Quintus presses back and lets the Doctor right inside him. The young man is hard again, and the Doctor strokes, changing his angle so that Quintus moans desperately against the wall as he speeds up his thrusts.  
"Gods," says Quintus, and comes with a huge shudder. The Doctor withdraws silently, and presses his hand on the young man's back.  
"Okay?" the Doctor says.  
Quintus is still shaking slightly. "Yes."  
"Good," the Doctor says.


End file.
